I Want To Be a Wild Croatian Tree

At 52, I'm still searching for a place to put down roots.

A wild Croatian tree and my legs

There’s a tree growing wildly behind the pool, and I can’t stop looking at it.

Its branches are reaching in all directions. It’s not supposed to be here, not in the middle of this tidy vacation spot, but it is anyway, uninvited. I laugh quietly because that tree and I have a lot in common.

Hi, I’m June. I’m what they call a third culture kid (TCK)—someone who grew up in a country other than their parents’.

My life’s been a bit of a global journey: born in Nepal to Nepali parents, off to Tokyo at two, graduated from an international school, then college in the United States, becoming a citizen while living in San Francisco. After that, it was Nepal, Thailand, Myanmar, and now, Germany—all for a boy. Yep, romance. If you’ve ever felt it, you know it’s a truly addictive substance, the kind that fairy-dusted me into leaving what I thought would be my forever home—Chiang Mai in Northern Thailand. It was pure bliss: low cost of living, small-town vibes, tons of expats, amazing food, and friendly locals.

I’m far away from that life now.

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At the moment, I’m writing from Croatia. My family—my husband, six-year-old son, and grandma—are here to escape the wet, groggy spring of Northern Germany, where we live. This trip is a welcome solace, a needed escape from a country I haven’t been able to adapt to, even after seven long years. I’ve been learning German online with a language school...forever. I’ve been trying to make mom friends...forever. I’ve been... I’ve been... “It’s impossible to make friends here,” one day my Indian colleague concluded, and I nodded frantically in agreement.

The folks on r/German on Reddit tell me it’s a common problem for many foreigners because Germans don’t open up or warm up easily. That makes me feel better—it’s them, not me. Still, how does that really help? I still live here, don’t I? That’s why every spring, we pick a country I want to run away to. Last year, it was Turkey; the year before, Greece. Both times, we booked an all-inclusive resort where multiple pools with giant slides and an array of colorful meals awaited us. Both times, the place was swarming with Germans who assumed we all spoke German, and I felt like I was back in Germany. And both times, I felt like the country's soul was missing, like we were shown a shallow version devoid of heart.

So this time, we rented an Airbnb—a charming stone house with green shutters—in Zadar. Our next-door neighbors are a family of chickens, cats, and sheep living harmoniously. Just the other day, we drove past a cow walking alone on the side of the street. It's a quiet town, seemingly filled with shepherds, mostly old women gently prodding their sheep. I’ve locked eyes with a few of them, and their deep, wrinkled faces curl into the most genuine smiles. I’ve been desperately missing that. In Germany, smiling spontaneously feels like a crime. It’s not their fault; it’s just the culture.

A shepherd herding her sheep in Zadar, Croatia

I wonder, like I always wonder whenever I venture out of Germany, if this is my future home. If this is where I’ll finally retire. I’m 52 and still searching for that place where my weary soul can truly rest. They call it “itchy feet,” a common ailment for TCKs, especially when their parents are no longer alive, like mine. Nepal used to be my home when I lived there in my early 30s with my parents, but when they died, my home perished with them.

At this very moment, I hear the distant roar of a tractor tending to crops and the gurgle of water flowing over rocks somewhere nearby. My body sinks into the patio chair. I don’t worry here like I do back home. No one is judging my lack of German. No one is cold. And while it's easy to relax on a two-week vacation, I don’t mean “worry” in that way. I mean it more existentially, like the constant nagging feeling of not knowing where home is, or even who I truly am, what my identity is.

I feel Japanese, Nepali, and American, mixed up to make JNA—that’s where I’m from. Yet, I don’t truly feel Japanese, Nepali, or American. I’m hollow. It’s a strange, unsettling emptiness, this constant state of being in-between or what they call “belonging everywhere and nowhere” all at once.

Our oasis in Zadar, Croatia

So, back to this wild tree, which is blocking my view of the rest of the green hills that hug us. The hills are not V-shaped here; it looks more like if a child drew a line. This tree is obviously out of place, but it doesn’t seem to care. Its roots are securely attached, its octopus tentacles sprouting chaotically underground. It knows itself: “I’m a tree, flexible yet grounded. No one can break me.”

I want to be this tree, yet I’m not so self-assured.

Back in Germany, we live in a 220 square meter Fachwerkhaus, a half-timbered house with a 3,200 square meter garden. “We have to buy this house!” I declared to my husband with a resolve that meant I wouldn't stop until it was ours. One, because it offered ground-floor living, almost like a bungalow—which is rare in Germany —but with two extra rooms upstairs. Two, and perhaps more importantly, because I desperately wanted to build a foundation, a place to finally root myself. Four years later, it hasn’t really worked out as planned. I feel closer to uprooting myself from this country than to building a solid foundation.

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One may wonder why I wouldn’t want to live in Japan. It’s my “motherland” after all.

Well, growing up in Japan in the ‘70s and ‘80s, my eyes and ears were always on high alert, scanning for danger, which usually meant looking out for Japanese kids yelling, “Gaijin! Gaijin! (Foreigner! Foreigner!)” like a public service announcement. It was code for Run, run like you’ve never run before! I learned many crucial things: my nose was too sharp, my complexion too dark, my hair too frizzy. I wasn’t the right gaijin, the white gaijin. The constant scrutiny, the feeling of being an outsider, even though you spoke the language like a native Japanese, stung deeply.

In my international school in Tokyo, my class represented 60 countries. I felt more at home there, but one incident affected me deeply. In my class, there was a Muslim girl with big, dark eyes who wore a burka, a long-sleeved shirt, and a long skirt (even in the summer) to cover her skin. One day, she announced she was going to show her hair. My friends—all Caucasian— and I huddled in the bathroom, anticipating the grand moment. The burka girl squinted her eyes when she saw me. “You’re a Hindu,” she said. “You’re not allowed to see my hair.”

I chuckled, even as her mouth remained hyphenated. “I’m not a Hindu,” I said.

That didn’t matter, and I was ousted of the bathroom. People judge you by the way you look, not the way you feel. This early lesson that identity could be imposed from the outside further complicated my sense of self.

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I don’t know how it feels to know where you’re from. How does that feel in your body? Does it feel warm? Secure? Confident? So one day, I asked my Canadian friend, who was born and raised in Canada and has never lived anywhere else, “How does it feel to know where you’re from?”

“It feels safe,” she said.

Safe—wow, that’s it. That’s what I don’t have and want to have. My husband and son provide that stability that only families can give, like they will never abandon me, no matter what. But how does it feel to feel safe in a country, like a belonging with the people from your country, like you’re home.

I’m a lone tree stump floating on a lake. Its rings tell its age but not its origin. That tree likely witnessed countless things it never wanted to experience when it stood tall, carrying hidden scars, just like mine.

I'm still chasing that feeling of safety, of really belonging somewhere. I’m trying to piece together my identity and find a place to finally put down roots, a place as self-assured and grounded as that wild Croatian tree.